One hundred and eighty four. That number will forever be carved into memory. It is a number that reflects my struggle. It is a number that reminds me of the dark days. It is the number that sent me down a whirlwind spiral. You might read this and think I’m being silly, or superficial or even shallow. But, this will be honest.  With this entry, you will be able to glimpse into my story. The whole story? Doubtfully. This is hard enough as is. I am sharing an important piece of me. A piece that leaves me vulnerable.

And, this is my story…

I had a great childhood. One packed with happy memories. Filled with giggles, dances and make believes. And yet, they were not the ones that I carried through the years. Trauma. Those were the ones that had shaped me into the person I was and have become.

Losing my hearing at such a young age was overwhelming and confusing. And not too long after this, my parents got a divorce.  I spent a considerably unhealthy portion of my childhood drowning in anguish. You see, I blamed myself for the divorce. Was my deafness too much for my dad to handle? Did I scare him away? I would imagine with the lack of education and resources in the eighties, the news would be terrifying. Today, I am still unsure if the incident played a role in their parting. But, today, it doesn’t matter.

I don’t remember exactly how many times I was forced to see someone. To seek help. To get my thoughts and my feelings articulated into words. Into sentences.  Into stories. And I could never bring myself to scribble poetry of my sadness. I was afraid if I had spoken of them, they would turn into reality. My reality. The very thing I was trying so hard to run away from.  This constant challenge I face, to weather through the storms of my mind. To allow myself to be completely vulnerable and naked. To allow the words to spill onto pages. Because in the end, what am I without my secrets?

Food. I found comfort in food. The sweet relief and sighs every time a piece of chocolate melted in my mouth. Instant euphoria. A quick fix.  A temporary relief.  A momentary bliss. I craved that satisfaction; I needed it. Thus, an addiction was born.

This unhealthy habit, I was in complete denial of. Quick to defend; shooting daggers with words.  Lost in the world of nihilism. Food fed my soul, like a warm blanket during a snowstorm. One that would be vigorously torn away, leaving me cold and frivolously searching for shelter.  A vicious cycle, a broken record, playing over and over and over.

F*ck off

I was slowly drowning. Angry waves crashing in this sea of self-loathing. And the in the moonlight reflection, I saw a girl with the sad grey eyes.  A girl with the world on her shoulders; submerging in this burden. Scrambling for air. Gasping for air.

I didn’t want to be her. Not anymore.

I came to realisation. An understanding. An acceptance of this life. My life. As was. As is. The ending hasn’t been written. This script. There’s still time to steer the story to a different direction. I have the wheel. I’m in control. Not you. Me. This is my story and I will write my ending. A happy ending.

So, I push play. And I push play. And I push play.

Each droplets of sweat. Every curse word I mutter. This is so damn hard, I tell myself. There’s no easy way of doing it. This challenge proves to be, well, challenging. It’s a daily practice; one that I welcome. This pursuit of happiness is no longer out of reach. No longer a myth. But a reality. My reality.

The girl with the sad eyes? I don’t see her looking back at me anymore.

So, I push play. And I push play. And I push play.